


On the topic of white knights

by Whrain



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Assassination Attempt(s), Book 4: Empire of Ivory, Book 5: Victory of Eagles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oneshot, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:08:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22259980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whrain/pseuds/Whrain
Summary: Making the decision to accept Napoleon's offer and remain in France, Laurence wakes after what at first seems like a night filled with nightmares. Only to slowly come to realize that life has decided to remain unfair no matter what.
Relationships: Napoleon Bonaparte/William Laurence
Comments: 2
Kudos: 75





	On the topic of white knights

**Author's Note:**

> My little contribution to the niche ship that's Laurence/Napoleon.  
> Have some practical body contact and a lot of Laurence thinking sad thoughts.

Laurence stirred as a warm breeze brushed his cheek. His skin felt oddly stretched, as if his body was suddenly too small to confine his person or more likely he had suffered a nasty sunburn.

Yes, the later seemed to make sense, he probably had strayed the decks of the Reliant for too long, without question making his officers uneasy and poor Riley fret about the ruined sailcloth they had discovered this very morning. He remembered in vivid detail how it’s glossy black hide had ripped open and dark blood had oozed onto the flagging. 

Laurence found himself frowning. There was something wrong with his line of thought. The sailcloth ought to be white, a ships floors even though likely as unpleasant to sleep on weren’t made of flagging and certainly nothing that would be hoisted on the topmast was supposed to bleed.

Another lukewarm breeze touched his skin, rattling his consciousness awake as if he was caught in a tropical storm, memories taking a hold of him.

Trying their very best to drown him.

The assassin. No, he corrected himself, the assassins.

He vividly remembered the brandy, which after a few minutes had forced him outside, desperate to gulp in air. His lungs seemingly incapable of providing the necessity confined by the small estate’s walls.

The edges of his vision blurring when he finally manged to stumble through the front door, facing Temeraire who had resigned to rest there instead of his Pavilion, afraid Lien might come at night and try to blow down the building or something else even more ridiculous. 

Seeing Laurence clawing desperately at his neckcloth, he very much looked like he might blow down the house himself, searching for a threat that could have caused Laurence evident terror. 

He barely saw Temeraire’s mighty head swing around, only heard the gunshot and felt hot dragon blood sprinkle his cheek before a mighty roar drowned out the second shot.

Impact forced Laurence to stumble backwards, a cry rising from his throat which seemed to fill with liquid instead of the much-needed air.

He could recall the sensation of being lifted and unforgiving cold biting into his skin. A distant voice begging him to stay awake, nothing more. 

Someone had tried to kill him and according to the way his body felt when his rising panic set every single nerve on fire, the culprit had nearly succeeded. 

He had to wake up, had to assess his current situation and find Temeraire. They must flee France at once, Napoleon had clearly not kept to his word or most likely even supported Lien’s attempt on their lives.

The thought of Temeraire’s roar and the smell of dragon blood he remembered made his limps obey his commands at once. 

His eyes snapped open, confusion overpowering the adrenalin flooding his veins at the very moment he recognized the furniture surrounding him. He had woken in the very room Napoleon had kept him after his transfer to Paris, before the emperor had proudly presented him with the pretty little estate overlooking the channel. 

Pushed up onto his elbows, a enormous explosion of pain, erupting from his abdomen, forced him to fall back onto the cushions. Giving way to another scream, followed by a moan which he barely identified as his own, since his consciousness was being forcefully reclaimed by the pain.

When he managed to regain it, only minutes had passed and a foreign kind of panic filled the room. 

“You ought to tell us when he wakes up!”, a voice shouted. Somewhere far in the back of his mind, Laurence registered that the man spoke with a strong French accent and that he wasn’t alone.

Nothing of this mattered though when the accused party replied, “He hadn’t woken! He just sat up and then started screaming.”

Which he was about to repeat as soon as he recognized the second voice.

“Temeraire!”, strong hands were pushing him back down.

Though his sight hadn’t returned yet, he tried to push them away, ignoring the pain his movement caused.

“Sir, you have to calm down or you will tear the stitches”, claimed the French accent.

Laurence bore him no mind, managing to free his left arm and aimlessly thrusting it in the rough direction of the voice.

“Temeraire!”

“Laurence! Laurence, pray do not fret. I’m perfectly well and Napoleon has taken care of that nasty soldier.”

The mention of the emperor’s name spurted Laurence to another desperate attempt, old reflexes taking over, his body knowing perfectly well that nothing good was associated with Bonaparte’s actions.

Then his mind seemed to suddenly realise that his lack of sight sprung from the lack of air. His movements at once reduced to violent coughing, after which his whole body shook, and icy fingers crept up his spine.

“Oh thank god, Sir please you have to lie very still now, otherwise you might suffocate. The poison is still cricling your veins and we can’t do much else but wait since you have lost a lot of blood.”

The words even though spoken calmly didn’t do much to calm Laurence at all, mainly because they drew a sound from Temeraire’s throat closely resembling a whimper.

At least his sight was slowly returning, and he found the massive black head resting on the balcony opposite the bed he had been placed in.

Temeraire took up nearly half of the room and Laurence feared that he might get stuck trying to extract his head, but he managed to say none of those things, only staring into the big blue eyes, clearly portraying Temeraire’s emotion.

There was so much fear that Laurence felt like he had lost his breath again but far deeper he glimpsed anger. Temeraire was not only upset he was furious.

A small flurry erupted at the door. It was thrust open, allowing a skittish young man in the attire of a physician and none other than Napoleon Bonaparte himself to enter.

Laurence breath froze at once, forcing the man at his side to aid his young colleague who was trying to keep the emperor from entering further.

“Your Majesty with all dear respect, the Captain needs to rest and this beast of his is already enough reason for him to fret.”

“As far as I can tell from the screaming, I heard outside the door I can’t make matters worse. Is he stable?”, Napoleon didn’t even spare a glance at Laurence.

The physician gave himself the liberty to frown, “For now.”

“Then leave us.”

After a few more hollow objections they surrendered the room. As soon as the door closed behind them Napoleon’s gaze fastened on Laurence. 

To Laurence surprise he found worry written on the emperor’s face and something akin to pity, when he took hold of a chair and dragged it to Laurence bedside.

“My dear Laurence, I can’t even fathom how to start. There are not enough words to express how sorry I am that something like this could happen to you under my protection. Let it be known that the would-be assassins have been punished and that I will establish guards on the estate. You may handpick them from my own men once you feel up to the task. Which brings me to the question of how you are faring?”

Dumbstruck, Laurence managed a weak “Your Majesty” and bobbed his head, in an attempt to manage something at least resembling a bow.

“Please, there’s no need for that. We are in private you may as well call me by my Christian name. I think I owe you that much after all you have done.”

“Then you may do the same”, Laurence blurted out before he had time to grasp what was happening.

Napoleon seemed quite satisfied with the conversation thus fat, even going as far as smiling a little at Laurence.

“You haven’t answered my question how are you feeling?”

“I should have asked after your welfare”, Temeraire interrupted begrudgingly.

“It’s alright, my dear. I… I think I’m doing well considering the circumstances.”

“We are glad to hear that”, Napoleon declared looking over at Temeraire with far too much familiarity for Laurence taste.

How long had he been rendered useless? And what had Napoleon been up to in the meantime?

“Laurence how much do you remember?”, Temeraire suddenly inquired.

Napoleon’s sour expression told him enough to realize that this was a topic the emperor hadn’t intended to breach just yet. In a half-hearted attempt to reign in the conversation he offered, “You don’t have to think about it just yet. Indeed it may do harm to your currently fragile health. It’s dealt with. We shall work out the details another time. "

Maybe it was his defiance of the man, maybe he just wanted to get rid of the memories. Whatever it was Laurence found himself answering truthfully, “I don’t remember much. One of the servants brought me Brandy. I hadn’t asked for it, but since we had just returned from a flight, I thought nothing of it. After drinking, I became short of breath, so I walked outside to catch some fresh air. I… I couldn’t see much after that. I heard shots. My dear, pray tell me, were you injured?”

His voice did betray his guilt, the shot was clearly meant for him and he couldn’t bring himself to shake the image of Temeraire badly injured, carrying him all the way from the estate back to Paris.

“Just a little scratch on the shoulder, the bullet hit the wall beside your head… but the second one didn’t miss.”

If there would have been enough space, Laurence didn’t doubt Temeraire would have lowered his head to avoid his gaze. Which made it even worse. They had stayed in France because Laurence had believed that his own unhappiness was worth sparing Temeraire to face the consequences of his execution. Now he very nearly had born it witness.

“I’m sorry, my dear” he said for a moment forgetting Napoleon sitting only half an armlength away “I’m so sorry, Temeraire”.

“It was an Englishman”, Temeraire suddenly growled “One of those terrible Marines and he had a dragon with him”, latter seemed to outrage him the most, “They tried to convince me to come with them. They demand my return!”

His ruff was spread to its fullest, jamming the door and a third of the windows, giving the room a gloomy atmosphere. 

The words took a moment to sink in but when they did, Laurence had the queer sensation of someone squeezing his heart to ashes.

“That’s a lie!” he shouted, his voice booming through the room, with a quality acquired to pierce through the nastiest storms on the open see.

“Why no Laurence, it was Proditorius and Langley! Proditorius told me I deserved to watch you bleed out on the cold stones and I would have chased him down, but I rather brought you here, so you won’t die.”

The names didn’t mean anything to Laurence who only had be closely acquainted with a handful of captains and officers but Temeraire spoke them with familiarity which made the feeling in his chest more potent.

“I… That’s…”, he turned to Napoleon as if the emperor would suddenly proclaim himself the culprit.

Surely this was his means to an unknown end. Maybe he had planned on staging an assassination, to gain Temeraire’s trust. Something might have gone amiss. Proditorius and his captain might be traitors and…

But no, he was the traitor and the way Napoleon returned his gaze told him enough to know him innocent of the crime, Laurence was so desperately trying to shove into his lap.

He looked a little wounded, maybe guessing Laurence false accusations but his face remained soft. He placed a hand on Laurence shoulder, squeezing it clearly attempting to lend comfort where none could be found.

“We have spoken about this Temeraire”, the emperor chided.

There was that we again and Laurence felt a stab of misplaced jealousy.

“The servant who brought you the Brandy was a spy, who’s trail we had lost a while ago. I thought he might have returned to England. I certainly didn’t fathom he would attempt to poison you. If you demand proof, we managed to chase down the aviator who aided them in their cowardly attempt on your life. You may speak to him once you have recovered”, Napoleon offered.

Dazed Laurence found himself shaking his head. His gaze fixated at a small scar on Temeraire’s forehead were Keynes had retrieved a musket ball. 

His hand strayed to the thick wrapping covering his torso. He would have deserved it. The thought was the first to cross his mind followed by a flood of accusations. He was a failure as a captain allowing his sentiment to overcome his sense of duty. Giving in to Temeraire’s whims. Ignoring direct orders and or shifting them around until they best served his own purpose. 

He had ruined the careers of his crew members. Probably damming some of them to the fate he had so cowardly escaped. 

Enabling Napoleon to send his seamlessly endless flood of dragons to conquer England once and for all. He had undone his own nation for the sake of what?

For the live of all the innocent beasts who would have suffered under the plague. Just as many lives if not even more saved by Temeraire’s and his treachery. Laurence hated what he had done. Hated himself for not regretting it. 

For a slight moment he was so disgusted, that he felt the urge to tear open the wrappings to succeed where the assassin had failed.

His own government had decided he had lost the right to even be treated like an respectable enemy of the nation. Forgoing all decency to instead send assassins to poison and shoot him.

He was disgusted by this too.

Outraged that they had again done something so utterly wrong, something that went against everything he had believed his nation to stand for. 

For a single heartbeat he found himself hating not only the admiralty and the government but the whole of England.

He had done his duty. He had done what was right and even though he had been willing to die for it… . Had even now, after weeks of living in France, thought about returning and facing the doom rightfully awaiting him back home.

Instead they had sent assassins. 

“He has stopped breathing again!”, Temeraire cried out, snapping Laurence back into the present.

He tried to draw breath, resulting in another fit of coughing. Worse than the last. He saw blood sputter the white sheets.

His vision was blurring once more and Temeraire’s ruff was still blocking the door, even though Laurence was certain that Napoleon was calling for the physician. 

His airways were convulsing alongside his coughing, his whole chest was on fire. 

Then he found himself sitting upright, steady hands circling his back, before one of them softly scrubbed his throat.

Finally his ribs gave way to the air flooding his lungs. His chest heaved, welcoming the pain accompanying the movement.

As soon as his body remembered how to breath normally, the hands withdrew.

Laurence found himself staring at Napoleon who seemed too relieved to notice the horror on Laurence face.

Before he could manage to shout at the emperor for manhandling him, or thank him for saving his life, he realized that his sight hadn’t returned to normal.

And after he drew a ragged breath, he finally came to the conclusion that he was crying.

Crying in front of the French emperor. 

There was a ugly laugh bubbling up Laurence throat.

Crying in front of the man who now owned him. Who had as well saved as doomed him to a life he was bound to hate. Which he would endure none the less for the dragon who stretched father into the room to anxiously nuzzle Laurence.

“Laurence?”, Temeraire asked hesitantly.

“Why?”, Laurence managed to ask, looking at Napoleon.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he was asking for. Why did he allow them to stay? Why didn’t he let Laurence die and use Temeraire’s grief to his advantage? Why had he even started this stupid war? Why had he himself brought the cure to France?

“England hasn’t served you well, even if you certainly have given her all she could ask for”, Napoleon said into the sudden silence.

“I have betrayed her.”

He shook his head “She has betrayed herself a long time ago. So had France. So had Corsica. It always takes a sacrifice, some martyrdom to make them see. I won’t idly watch you become the latter. England had its fair share of white knights it seems she has grown tired of them”, a small smile appeared on Napoleons face, “But I think my dear William, France and I might be in dire need of one.” 

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for the love of my life.  
> For I will have to conquer the underworld to make up for my forgetfulness!   
> No honestly, wherever you will ever see this or not, it's to a great deal your fault (thankfully) that I actually wrote a bloody fanfic of this.


End file.
